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Today, Miss Lith and I are utterly ruthless—no mercy, no hesitation. Last night, I treated her to an intimate Italian feast at a charming restaurant that never fails to captivate me. We devoured the entire menu: delicate handmade prosciutto antipasti, rich pasta drenched in a thick ragù that lingers in your stomach for hours, decadent creamy tiramisu, and a robust espresso to conclude. Italian cuisine’s perfection lies in its heaviness—each bite fills you gradually, leaving your belly firm, warm, and brimming with that delightful pressure that brings a grin to your face. This morning, one glance between us confirmed it: time to purge. We summoned the slave to the living room, commanding him to lie flat on his back on the cold floor, arms rigid at his sides—no restraints, just the stern directive not to move a millimeter. His head tilted back against the low bench, neck taut, throat exposed, mouth yanked open by his own hands to ensure his lips stayed parted. He knows better than to close it—even for a moment—lest the slaps, or worse, begin. No ring gag, no silicone funnel—just his bare mouth, lips stretched thin, tongue pressed down, teeth trembling as he struggles to breathe through his nose. His face is a spectacle: eyes wide and pleading, pupils dilated with fear, forehead glistening with sweat, cheeks flushed crimson with humiliation. A faint whimper escapes—a choked plea that barely leaves his lips, held open to their absolute limit. We couldn’t care less. I knelt over him first, knees framing his head, my body hovering inches above his gaping mouth. With a deep breath, I relaxed—and the first wave emerged, slow, thick, and searing, a dark mass landing squarely on his tongue, coiling like a serpent. The scent flooded the room instantly—raw, primal, a blend of our essence mingled with yesterday’s coffee and indulgence. He jerked, attempting to turn his head, but I seized his hair, locking him in place. The second wave followed—softer yet larger, filling his mouth until it spilled over, thick rivulets cascading down his cheeks and neck. He gagged, tears streaming, yet dared not close his mouth—he knew the consequences all too well. Miss Lit loomed beside me, her laughter low as she stroked my back. “Good girl,” she murmured. “Pack him full. I want no room left when it’s my turn.” Together, we unleashed nearly two kilos of warm, dense weight—heavy, sticky, impossible to swallow swiftly. He had to chew slowly, savoring every morsel sliding down his throat, his neck visibly working to stave off nausea. Hesitation or disgust earned him the whip—a multi-tailed weapon that left crimson welts across his chest, thighs, or wherever we pleased. We teased him with it earlier, letting its whistle remind him of his place. But the service didn’t end there. My golden stream, scalding and sharp, poured down his throat to ease the load. Miss Lith’s viscous morning saliva seasoned the mix, imprinting his role as a mere human toilet. Our laughter—cold, cruel—accompanied his struggle, his coughs, his tearful swallows. Occasionally, a foot pressed hard on his chest or a sharp slap reminded him of his ownership. Two merciless goddesses, bellies light and satisfied, one gaping mouth brimming to its limit. The rule was simple: consume every morsel, never close his mouth, never complain. Or be prepared for double the torment—and we relish his suffering far more than compliance.